


Achilles and Patroclus

by cellardoors_and_petrichor



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 04:54:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8735638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cellardoors_and_petrichor/pseuds/cellardoors_and_petrichor
Summary: Hamilton stumbles into a small bakery in search of the nearest place with coffee and is quickly enamored with the baker.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [i_dreamthedream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_dreamthedream/gifts).



When the French press breaks, Hamilton walks into the first store that smells even faintly of coffee. Eliza would tell him he has a problem, but Eliza moved in with Angelica so it doesn’t really matter what she thinks, does it?

Hamilton leans against the countertop and taps his foot. His phone shrills, piercing through the caffeine withdrawal induced headache. Another call from Burr.

“Not now Burr,” Hamilton mutters to himself as he cancels the call. He pockets the phone and looks up with a polite smile at the sound of footsteps.

“Are you okay? You look a little tired there,” the gorgeous man behind the counter says, trying to wipe dough off his hands. “By that I mean you look dead on your feet. Pull up a chair, the coffee’s been sitting around but I can put on a fresh pot if you’d like.”

“That’s okay, I’m not sure I’ll taste it at this point anyway.” Hamilton distractedly pulls a stool up to the counter and drops onto it, accepting the coffee like a shot of methadone. He takes a breath, eyes slipping shut as he's delighted by the smell. “Mmm coffee: nectar of the gods, sweet ambrosia. Can you just insert the needle into my arm?”

“I don’t have an IV but I can give you a straw.” The man drops a straw in the mug with a smirk and plates a pastry.

Hamilton unknowingly leans in slightly and accepts the plate unthinkingly, eyes flicking to the baker’s mouth. “Sold. So what’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?”

“Well, believe it or not, this is my bakery,” the man says with a smile.

Hamilton suddenly feels the urge to write poetry, an impulse he hasn’t had since he was fifteen and rash and easily distracted by pretty people. A voice that sounds awfully like Lafayette points out that he’s still rash and easily distracted by pretty people. He ignores it and takes a sip of coffee. “Well I figured, between the apron and the whole flour” — Hamilton gestures towards his own head, mirroring the baker — “in your gorgeous hair thing. Not my best pickup line but I’ve been given more for less.”

His companion huffs lightly. “I’d bet. How can you even be sure I like men?”

“It’s my sixth sense,” Hamilton says, picking up the plate and pastry in front of him. The baker looks down at his notepad, tilting his head as he writes. It nearly causes Hamilton to drop the china.

Behind his ear is the same mark that Eliza used to trace on his arm when she was feeling particularly melancholic.

Hamilton coughs and takes a bite of the pastry on his plate. “Good god this is incredible. Will you marry me?

The man gives him an amused look, one he knows well. It's the 'Is this guy for real?' look. “You don’t even know my name and you’re already proposing?”

Hamilton rests his elbow on the counter, his chin on his hand. “Well? Don’t keep me in suspense.”

“John Laurens. And you are?” John proffers his hand.

Hamilton shakes it, lingering on release. “Alexander Hamilton.”

John refills Hamilton’s coffee cup. “Oh, Hamilton, huh? You write for the New York Times occasionally. You don’t get paid by the word, do you?” John scoffs at Hamilton’s surprised look and raised brows. “Hey, there’s nothing in the baker’s handbook about not being allowed to read the newspaper.”

Hamilton accepts the mug, a kindling of pride lit in his chest. “I barely get paid for them at all, but I can't  _not_ write. For example, I'm currently writing a piece on our country’s financial situation. We're heading down a path that will repeat the subprime mortgage crisis of 2008. Don't you think someone needs to write about it?”

John looks impressed. “I guess so. So how did you pay for that rolex watch?”

Hamilton looks at it fondly. “It was a present from a friend. But I get paid at my day job, which quite frequently turns into my night job as well. I'm a defense lawyer and I’ve currently got five cases on my docket, which is why I haven't slept in a while. I should hire interns, be Annalise Keating with less murder. Oh and that reminds me: I have to write the guest lecture I'm giving at NYU next week.”

Hamilton types a reminder in his phone while John’s eyebrows knit in concern. “Sounds like a heavy load. When did you last get some shut eye?”

Hamilton purses his lips and racks his brain. He doesn’t miss the way the baker glances at his mouth. He thrusts his empty coffee mug into flour-dusted hands while he thinks. “What day is it?”

“Wednesday.” John's eyebrows lower as his concern rises. “If you can’t remember what day it is, I’m not sure I should be giving you anymore caffeine.”

Hamilton pouts. “Now, that’s very unkind. I could argue it probably violates the Geneva Conventions. Plus, don’t they always say that ‘The customer is always right’ because I’m pretty sure I’m the customer and I’m very sure that I’m always right.” He pauses and shrugs. “I can sleep when I’m dead.”

Hamilton's phone rings again, loud and buzzing against his thigh. Hamilton checks the caller ID and John’s eyes flick to the phone.

“Do you need to get that?”

Hamilton turns it off, shoving it into his pocket. “No, it can wait.”

He leans in with a secretive smile, poised with words of honey on his tongue to convince John to pour him some more coffee when the bell above the shop’s door chimes. Hamilton turns his head to glance at the newcomer and reels back.

He narrows his eyes, aggressively running his hands through already messy hair. “What are _you_ doing here?”

Burr pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand, his briefcase in the other. “Believe it or not, Alexander, I have a life outside of you.”

Hamilton clutches his chest. “You wound me.”

Burr directs a sigh at Hamilton before putting on his professional mask to speak with John. “Mr. Laurens, I am your father’s lawyer” – He opens the briefcase with a click, producing a stack of papers – “He’s selling this building and, as a courtesy, is allowing you three weeks to get your affairs in order.”

Hamilton sets down his empty coffee mug with a thud. “But the pastries and _coffee_. Fuck this. I am not letting them take away your bakery, John. Give me that.” Hamilton snatches the letter from Burr and scans it. He looks up at his old friend with a grin. “Looks like fun. I’ll see you in court, Burr.”

“Heaven help us all,” Burr directs above. He produces a business card for Laurens. “Feel free to call my office if you’ve got any questions.”

Burr turns to Hamilton. “Can I speak to you for a moment?”

Hamilton reluctantly walks, with arms crossed, towards a table towards the back of the room. His entire body feels weighed down. He stops when they're out of hearing range. 

Burr takes out an envelope from his briefcase. “Will you finally sign these?”

Hamilton keeps his arms against his chest and stares at the manila envelope.

Burr sighs, placing the folder on the table. “Can I give you a little friendly advice? Sign the papers. Ignoring me isn’t going to make this go away.”

Hamilton looks down at his feet, chagrined. “I know.”

“It’s not your fault that you’re not her soulmate.” His eyes flick to Laurens and he continues, “And you do remember that you’re not allowed to sleep with your clients, right?”

“Why I would never!” Hamilton insists faux-scandalized.

Burr simply raises an eyebrow.

Hamilton smiles. “You know I'm a stickler to the rules of our profession. Also, the law doesn’t apply to soulmates.”

Burr gives Laurens an appraising glance and clasps his friend’s shoulder. “Don’t make me have to draft up more divorce papers, it's a nightmare when there are matching soulmarks involved. Take care of yourself.”

Burr slips out the door as Hamilton picks up the envelope. It feels heavier than it is, the burden of its contents nearly unbearable. He stares at the back of the envelope, tracing the edge of the seal with his finger. He looks up when Laurens clears his throat.

Leaning on the countertop John says, “I can’t afford to pay your fees.”

“Not necessary.” Hamilton shrugs, putting the albatross back on the table and shoving his hands in his pockets “I mean, what’s a soulmate for if not free expert legal advice?”

Laurens steps back. “Soulmate?”

Hamilton walks over to Laurens and rolls up the right sleeve of his dress shirt. John uses his finger to lightly trace the mark on his soulmate’s forearm.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.” – Hamilton watches Laurens lick his lips and reaches out to hover his hand over John’s jaw – “Can I kiss you?”

Laurens nods. Hamilton takes a steadying breath, taking in the scent of butter and flour. He puts his right hand on John’s jaw, hyperaware of the stubble under his fingers, as he rests the other hand on John’s neck. He lightly scratches the skin there as he feels Laurens' hands unconsciously reach for his hips.

Hamilton's eyes search his soulmate's face, waiting until the tension becomes overwhelming. When he finally tilts his head and leans in, the world slips away. He kisses John gently, relishing the softness of his soulmate's lips.

A wave of warmth travels throughout his body, to which he makes a soft, breathy noise. As he pulls away smiling, Hamilton tries to commit to memory the dazed and happy look on John's face. He feels something inside himself settle.

Alexander takes a deep breath, clapping his hands and rubbing them together.

“So, shall we figure out a way to kick your father's ass in court?”


End file.
